


Friendship is Potty-Mouth Magic

by Mr Son (MrSon)



Series: Friendship is Potty-Mouth Magic [1]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Friendship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:20:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSon/pseuds/Mr%20Son
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The magical flu was both disgusting and irritating, but Strife was handling it. Until a nosy magic user decided to be <i>helpful</i>. </p><p>(Note to the Yogscast: Do not read any of my fics on stream.)<br/>(I do not support the Yogscast company. I write because I enjoy the characters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendship is Potty-Mouth Magic

=== === ===

Strife felt the sneeze coming, and turned away from the delicate wiring just in time to shoot out a glob of purple snot over the floor. He pulled a tissue out of his pocket and gave his nose a quick wipe, grimacing. His sinuses felt like he'd just gotten a swift kick. He rubbed at his temples, trying to ease some of the pressure. He could feel the headache returning again, even worse than it had been the previous day.

He groaned, pushing away from the workbench. It was far too early for another break, but apparently he'd have to take one anyway. He stretched, his joints popping, sore and tight, then stood up. Maybe he should go have a walk out front, get some fresh air. That would probably be good for his lungs, right? Maybe clear out some of the feeling that he was coated in slime on the inside.

But he was tired, and that was something taking a walk wouldn't cure. He needed to recoup some energy so he could get back to work. He was falling behind on his projects and this stupid magical sickness just wasn't clearing up. No, if anything it seemed to be getting worse.

And he was already running out of ideas for seeking treatment. Hannah hadn't known anything, and had warned him away from asking Nilesy. Parvis was... Strife was very certain that trying to bleed his way to good health wasn't going to work out. And when he'd gone to visit Panda Labs the day before to talk to Duncan... After hearing the second explosion go off in their basement, he'd given them some quick excuses and fled.

If it kept getting worse, he would have to consider talking to Kirindave, but he wasn't ready to risk that yet. There would be a price, and it would _not_ be a good business deal.

Strife shook his head at the thought, grabbing a table as the motion left him dizzy and unbalanced. Ugh, he was a mess; this was costing him so much time... and time was _money_. He fumbled his way over to a trash can and blew his nose above it, dropping the tissue down onto the purple-blotted mound already half-filling it. Disgusting.

"Maybe I should lay down for a bit..." he mumbled. It felt like laziness, but if he wasn't capable of getting anything more done anyway... and it might help him recover faster. Yes, he'd be more productive in the long run if he took some rest now. No sense risking sloppy work.

He'd only just set foot out of his lab, when he heard a knock at the door. He groaned, rubbing at his forehead as the headache decided that yes, this was the perfect time to start the party. At least it probably wasn't Parvis; he wouldn't have bothered knocking. Strife made his way downstairs. One didn't turn down a customer, even if they had the worst timing.

The knock repeated -- four rapid, even thumps. "Yeah, I'm coming." Strife stopped in front of the door to blow his nose again. If he sneezed, he didn't want to coat the customer in purple slime. His PR department would go mental. Now, which sales pitch should he use?

Strife opened the door, looking up, and up, at his visitor, sniffling down the gunk that drained from his sinuses as he tilted his head back.

The... man? It was probably a man, from what Strife understood of human gender. He was very tall, with loose brown hair with a streak of blond in his bangs. His clothes were mainly black with a long, purple-trimmed white coat neatly fitted to his lean figure. A variety of small bags and glass bottles hung from his belt, along with a sword in a plain leather sheath. The lower half of his face was covered, wrapped up in some sort of heavy scarf, and there was a green... eye? hanging from a thin cord of braided leather chain around his neck. His arms were tightly wound with clean white bandages.

Strife might have considered the whole ensemble rather stylish, if the outfit hadn't made it painfully obvious that the man was a magic user. Strife discarded his first few sales pitches. Simple and to the point would probably be for the best; cut through the mysterious potty-mouthed bullshit. "Welcome to Strife Solutions! What Solution™ can we offer you today?"

The man stared down at him, expressionless. At least, as much as Strife could tell from what showed above the mask. "It's a magical illness; it's called flux flu."

Strife ran a hand through his hair. Of course. Of _course_ the mage would come to him with a magical problem. "Sir, we don't have- we don't deal in p- in- in magic here. We offer only the- only reliable, _science_ -based Solutions™. If you need magic, you coul- you should try my fr- my- my neighbors." Strife gestured vaguely in the direction of Hannah and Nilesy's home. Either the mage would find them, or get lost, and either way he wouldn't be Strife's problem any more. "Is there anything else you need? We offer subscriptions to many of our excellent services, starting at fourteen emeralds per month."

The man snorted in what Strife guessed was amusement. Why did no one on this planet take his sales pitches seriously? "No, Strife. I mean that what you have is the flux flu. It is a very serious illness. I can help you cure it."

Strife narrowed his eyes at the man. His headache might have been distracting, but not enough to prevent him from noticing... "How do- how do you know what's h- what's going on?" If this was Kirindave in disguise... but why would he bother to disguise himself? If he had help for one of Strife's problems he'd just saunter in and wave it under Strife's nose until Strife was willing to sell his soul for it. Which was hyperbole; Strife was... reasonably certain that Kirindave wouldn't literally ask for his soul. "Have you been spying?" Corporate espionage was an easier concern to deal with than the possibility that Kirindave was acting strangely.

"Yes." The man shrugged. "But not on you. I have several scrying spells trained on Lalna at all times. I overheard your visit with him."

That answer tickled something in the back of Strife's brain. He'd _heard_ about a mage who used to be at war with Duncan, once, and it would be reasonable enough to want to keep an eye on your former enemies... But what was that mage's _name_? "I don't believe you've introduced yourself."

The mage shifted stance slightly, and suddenly he was practically radiating an aura of being a Mysterious Tortured Soul Who Knew Dark Secrets. The ends of his scarf billowed in the complete lack of wind. "I am Rythian. The Mighty Mage. Formerly of Blackrock Castle."

"Well, it- it's been- it was nice to meet you, Rythian, but I was in the middle of working on some sensitive machinery, and I can't risk magic gumming up the gears, so-" Strife sneezed. A misty purple cloud drifted upwards as a matching splash of mucus hit Rythian's boot. "I have- I've got this all- it's under my complete control! It's not bad- it's not as bad as you- as it looks! I'm just- I'm getting plenty of vitamins and I'm sure I'll be good- right as rain in just another few days, so I don't need you bringing your potty-mouthed magic in here and bippity boppity boo-ing up my sinuses, thank you!"

Strife tried to slam the door, but Rythian reached out a hand and caught it. Strife's eyes widened, then narrowed in a displeased glare. Weren't magic users supposed to be scrawny and weak? Well, Rythian had half of that down, at least. On the other hand... Strife remembered Kirindave's broad, powerful shoulders and the impressive girth of Hannah's biceps. Right. Shouldn't just make assumptions. He gave the door another shove, but it wouldn't budge from Rythian's grip. "You d- Don't you come in here, or I'll have you arrested for trespassing!"

"By whom?" Rythian's head tilted slightly to the side. From the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, he was probably smiling under his mask. "The only local authority is Ridgedog, and I can't imagine he bothers paying attention to... petty crimes. Or would you call the Magic Police? Do you trust magic users to police magic users?"

"Of course not!" Strife's reply was automatic, and he clamped his mouth shut firmly as he realized he'd just agreed that there was probably no one who would stop Rythian. "You d- I can police you myself if I have to. I h- I'm well armed, you know. With- with much more reliable measures than _magic_."

"Prone to vigilantism?" Rythian was _definitely_ smiling. Strife's fingers itched to wrap around his disassembler, and he rued having left it upstairs in the workshop. "I was just trying to be a good samaritan, you know. I _can_ help with your flu."

"For a price, right?" If not his disassembler, then a good brick. Magic could only do so much against a brick to the jaw. "What do you want? Money? Tools? Materials?"

"Nothing you wouldn't be willing to offer." Rythian's voice was soothing. Reassuring. Strife failed to be reassured; no one showed up offering exactly what they thought you needed out of a sense of generosity. "Money or materials would be fine." Rythian shrugged. "Honestly, I am mostly interested in making sure your illness doesn't spread. It is much more serious than you think."

Strife considered the last few days of purple snot, congestion, and headaches. "Seems like- like just a potty-mouthed sort of version of a normal- a regular flu to me. I can call you if it gets worse I guess. How about you just leave a phone number or something with me and head off back to your... magical hole in the ground or wherever it is you live?"

Rythian sighed, letting go of the door to rub at his forehead. "You don't want to leave this untreated for long. I can give you the treatment and then you can worry about what to pay me afterwards, if that helps."

"That's not- It's not very helpful to just- to go into debt without knowing what the debt is." Strife countered. "I don't want- I'm not going to owe something when I don't- when you haven't said _what_ you want- what payment you're looking for yet." He looked at the door and considered trying to shut it again, but the mage would probably just get angry and at least he wasn't actually trying to step inside yet.

"Then I will _treat you for free_ , and you will owe me _nothing_." Rythian was rubbing at his temples with both hands, now. "You don't understand, this is a very serious illness. It will get worse, and you might not survive it. And I _do not want it to spread_."

"I can just stay inside while I'm... under the weather." Strife pointed out. Might not survive? Well, even a normal flu could be deadly. Why should he believe some potty-mouth he hadn't even asked for an opinion? On the other hand, it might be good to get his hands on whatever medicine the mage was offering if it was for free. He didn't have to use it; he could study it. See how -- if -- it worked. Synthesize his own version to sell; assuming it had some basis in science and wasn't all herbs and 'abra-kadabra'.

Rythian looked like he was getting a headache to match Strife's. "It doesn't spread through _people_ ; it will infect your machines, your... house, your garden. It's a _blight_. And then I'll have to come back and contain and cleanse the whole area and will you just let me treat you now, while it's still only a minor illness?"

"Even if- assuming I think- if I believe you..." Strife still wasn't sold on the dire threat of the grape Kool Aid flu. "It sounds more like this is a favor for you than it is for me."

"Yes, okay." Rythian slashed a hand through the air. "It doesn't _matter_ who's doing a favor for whom; this would benefit both of us."

"Just- that's-" Strife sneezed across Rythian's boots again. "Fine. Wiggle your wand around and maybe if it makes me feel better I'll leave you with a few coins. Just don't waste my time; I have a lot of work to do."

Rythian extended a hand. Wanted to shake on it? Strife sighed and reached out. Rythian's hand closed over his, and the world collapsed.

Everything was darkness, flecked with tiny points of distant light that failed to illuminate anything whatsoever. A buzzing filled his ears, and the empty blackness pressed in, making Strife feel like he was inside a vibrating rubber balloon which squeezed him firmly from every direction, making the smallest movement a struggle. There was nothing under his feet, no air flowing over him; He couldn't breathe, and all the warmth was draining out of his body into nothing. It was like the world he had always known had never even existed, and the only things which were still real outside his own skin were Rythian's slim hand, and the hideous buzz; he couldn't even see the mage who was keeping such a firm grip on him.

The world snapped back into place around him. He was in the hall of a strange building, with oak walls and a sandstone floor, and it was spinning like a merry go round. Rythian caught him as he started to topple over, and held him while he fought down the urge to vomit. Once Strife felt like he could hold his feet under him, he shook off the mage's hands and almost tripped over a chair backing away.

"What the hell was that?!"

Rythian brushed some sort of sparkling purple dust out of his hair and scarf. "I took us through the void." he answered, clearly amused by Strife's discomfort. "I did tell you that it's best to start treatment as quickly as possible; this was much faster than flying."

And, Strife was sure, much more entertaining. "What- You sh- How about some _warning_ before you- you magic a guy out of his house? Don't you have any manners?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you want a drink? Perhaps a biscuit?" Rythian asked, mockingly. "I thought you didn't want me wasting your time?" Rythian turned and swept down the hall. "This way."

The hallway kept turning, and they passed a few closed doors before Rythian lead the way into a large room, half-filled with some sort of enormous altar in the center, which was made of stone pillars surrounding a slab of material Strife didn't recognize. A large, complex cube hovered over the slab, rotating slowly. Two of the walls of the room were entirely covered in mostly-full bookshelves, and a third was covered in various dried herbs hanging in bundles over a line of workbenches, chests, and a desk.

Rythian mumbled something about returning shortly, and vanished back out the door. Strife wandered over to the desk and dropped into the chair, fanning himself with a hand. The cold from the void was long gone, and wherever Rythian had spirited them off to, it was disgustingly hot. The heat was not agreeing with his fever, leaving him faintly dizzy, and he could feel sweat dripping down his face. He wiped himself off with a sleeve, leaving it streaked with dark lines of sweat and snot. He felt muggy, and gross, and between the heat and his aching head it was hard to get up the energy to be properly annoyed at the fact that whatever medicine Rythian was planning on feeding him, it was obviously magical and he wouldn't be able to copy the recipe after all.

Unless it was entirely herbal? Strife turned to look at the plants above him, trying to ignore how his brain felt like it was sloshing around with the motion. A few herbs he recognized, and a few more were almost familiar -- maybe he'd be able to tell if they were fresh? The rest were completely alien to him, which was annoying, but not unexpected. He hadn't exactly been top of his class in xenobotany in college. Honestly, if it hadn't been for Xephos' help he wouldn't have scraped together nearly as good a grade as he had. No, an herbal medicine would barely be any more reproducible than a magical one.

Bored and frustrated, Strife turned his attention to the bookshelves. They carried not only books but various crystals, and jars of glowing liquid, as well as a few boxes labelled in a script Strife couldn't read. His fingers itched at the sight of a perfect shard of energized certus quartz. What he could do with a few of those... He wondered if Rythian had more he might be persuaded to part with... for appropriate recompense.

As if summoned by the thought -- Strife really hoped he hadn't been, he did _not_ want to be dealing with psychic abilities on top of magic -- Rythian returned to the room, carrying some sort of large, square metal frame. He set it down near the shelves and unfolded it. It was a cot.

"Excuse me?!" Strife sat bolt upright, which his aching head did not appreciate. His balance wobbled, and he was glad he hadn't tried to stand. "I can't- I'm not- I don't plan on _staying_ here! Don't- just give me whatever medicine you've been- you were planning to and I'll go home." Staying at a strange mage's place? Definitely not on the schedule for today.

"If you want to get treated, you will be. It's not a medicine, it's a spell." Rythian reached into one of his belt pouches and started pulling out a piece of cloth. And kept pulling it out. Strife started as an entire blanket came out of the small bag, and was draped over the cot. What was it with magic users and their urge to show off? "The spell will probably put you to sleep, and even if it doesn't it will take several days to purge the flux from your system."

" _D-days?_ " Strife pushed himself to his feet, gripping the back of the chair tightly to brace himself. "I have a business to run!" Strife paused as the rest of the implications of Rythian's statement sank into his mind. "And I'm not- I certainly don't intend to let you... shazaam me unconscious for who knows how long!"

Rythian brushed past him, reaching up to pull herbs off the wall. Strife's fingers flexed against the wooden chair back, his knuckles whitening with the urge to grab the mage and shake some sense into him, but he moved cautiously out of the way as Rythian selected his choices of plants, plucking one down here, another there, not pausing for thought but only going for exactly the ones he wanted. "If I don't do this for you, you'll be out all month, if you recover at all. You have a fairly severe infection. How did you get it?"

Rythian didn't know? But... "Didn't you- I thought you spied on my conversation with Lalna?"

"Only some of it." Rythian shrugged, dumped the herbs down on a work table next to the desk, then started across the room towards the shelves. "I thought I should give you some privacy."

"And then you showed up at my door pushing your magical 'treatments' on me." Strife sniffled, feeling his nose threaten to overflow. He inhaled, sucking it back down. Why wasn't there a tissue box in here, anyway? "And apparently Lalna doesn't deserve any privacy from your potty-mouth, is that right?"

Rythian, returning to the desk with one of the boxes, snorted in clear disdain, and at first Strife thought it was at the 'potty-mouth' remark, but then Rythian said, "Not if he's going to keep being a complete _idiot_."

Well, that was a tone of voice which was... uncomfortably familiar. Strife did _not_ miss his college days. "Lover's spat?"

Rythian spluttered, dropping the jar he'd pulled out of the box. He swore as it hit the table and caught it before it rolled off, setting it down carefully. "No! And I'll thank you not to- to make such insinuations while I'm trying to prepare this spell!"

Well, _that_ was a defensive reaction. Oh, they were enemies, right? Strife had almost forgotten. Rythian's indignation made more sense in that context; Strife wouldn't want someone coming up with similar ideas about his own love life. He should probably say, "Sorry." And as a gesture of goodwill, answer the question he'd actually been asked. "I ran out of fuel in a taint biome and had to walk out."

"Let me guess, you were using a jetpack?" Rythian slid a pale flower from its bundle and cast a few of its petals into a stone mortar, then picked up the pestle and started grinding them. "You say your science is reliable, but I wouldn't trust myself to all that metal up in the sky."

Strife rolled his eyes. "No, you'd rather trust yourself to pixie dust and wishes. I made that jetpack with my own two hands and it's a solid piece of highly advanced technology."

"Which ran out of fuel." Rythian said as he poured a shimmery blue-silver liquid over the ground petals.

"That was just user error." Strife waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing wrong with the design. It also functions as armor, you know. I could hook you up with one. They're hot products!"

"No thanks." Rythian used the stem of the flower to stir the mixture, then paused, his eyes narrowing. He stood up and started for the door, muttering, "You'll need some spare clothes."

"Wait wh- clothes?!" Strife found himself patting at his shirt, and dragged his hands away. "Excuse me, why- what exactly is wrong with my outfit? I'll have you know this is custom tailored!"

Rythian paused by the door. "Exactly. You don't want it ruined."

"Ruined?! What the h- what kind of spell are you-" Strife cut himself off; Rythian had already left, and was probably too far away to hear, now. Well, Strife could probably yell... He glared down at the shimmery liquid in the the mortar. Mages. They never explained what they were doing, and when they did, it was never anything but complete nonsense. Was Rythian going to pour that stuff over Strife's head or something?

Strife could understand if Rythian had just meant that Strife would need spare clothes if he was going to be staying a few days -- not that Strife _meant_ to be staying that long, or wanted to... but the way Rythian said 'ruined'... Well, maybe none of this would have been a problem if the mage had taken the time to explain his intentions before dragging him here!

Strife wiped his dripping nose off on his sleeve again, then scowled down at it. And maybe if Rythian had some tissues somewhere then Strife's outfit wouldn't be at risk. He looked at the doorway, which Rythian had left open in his hurry. It might have been a good idea to go with the mage to pick clothes for _himself_. Who knew what kind of peskipiksi pesternomi costume the mage would drape him in.

Before he could decide whether it would be worth trying to hunt down wherever Rythian had vanished to, the mage returned with an armload of clothes. Well, they were black, at least. Rythian dumped them on the cot as Strife started walking over.

"These should fit." Rythian raised his eyebrows at Strife expectantly as Strife picked up the pants and held them up. Plain sweatpants, the type people wore while wasting time lying around the house. He dropped them to examine the shirt which was something similar to a long-sleeved t-shirt, covered in the little puckers of old repairs. The boxers he ignored completely.

Strife rolled his eyes at Rythian. "This is like, anti-style. You expect me to wear these?"

"You don't have to." Rythian shrugged. "But I thought you might want to save your clothes so you can wear them home when you leave."

Honestly what was in that mixture? Bleach? Strife rubbed a thumb over the shirt. It was a standard jersey-knit cotton -- the type humans seemed to like to export all over the galaxy. It wasn't surprising to find it even on a backwater planet like this. Strife steeled his spine and turned to Rythian. "Give a guy some privacy, will you?"

Rythian twitched, eyes widening slightly, and he turned and marched stiffly out of the room. Strife waited until the door shut, leaving him alone, before he relaxed his stern expression. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to grin at making Rythian jump, or scowl at having to undress for whatever the mage was planning. He settled on neither, instead turning his focus to undoing his tie.

The new clothes felt strange once Strife pulled them on. It had been... years since he wore anything that wasn't bespoke. It was weirdly uncomfortable, even though it wasn't really bothering his skin. Strife rubbed absently at his neck, where his tie should have been. Its lack was almost a physical weight.

He was wasting time. Strife shook himself and called out, "'I'm decent!" Hmph. 'Decent'. No, Strife was better than decent. No crummy clothes could make him anything less than _fantastic_. No weird mage guy or stinky magic workshop could bring him down. Not even-

Strife sneezed just in time to coat Rythian's chest in snot as the mage walked up to him.

Not even this disgusting blackberry jelly flu.

Strife grabbed the boxers off the bed and blew his nose with them before checking for Rythian's response to being his sneeze guard. The mage was holding his shirt out away from his skin and grimacing down at it, one eyebrow twitching slightly. "Sorry." Strife offered, insincerely, chucking the snot-filled boxers into the corner. Rythian pulled a face at the deliberate act of disrespect, then sighed.

"Let's just... wait here, please." Rythian crossed the room and picked up the mortar. Strife watched him fumble around in the box he'd left on the desk, hunting for some stupid magical prop or another. Eventually he found it, some long stick that Strife didn't get a good look at before Rythian shoved it into a pouch and was returning, dragging the chair behind him.

Rythian put the chair near the cot and set the mortar down on it, then gave a vague, loose wave towards the cot. "You should, um, please sit down?"

Strife sat, rubbing absently at the back of his neck where it still felt wrong having nothing there. Rythian picked the mortar back up off the chair and settled himself down, placing the mortar onto his lap. Strife managed to not fidget. "Look, try to get this over with quick, alright? Don't waste my time."

"Fine." Rythian slipped the stick -- a paintbrush? -- out of his pouch and leaned forward, his hand darting out to grab Strife's chin before Strife could pull away.

"Hey!" Strife complained, "I told you to warn a guy!"

"We're not going through the void this time." Rythian began painting lines over Strife's cheeks and forehead. "I promise."

\--- --- ---

Strife floated in the vast reaches of the cosmos. Around him, giant gears danced and spun, connecting and separating, mocking his inability to understand their purpose. He was inside a machine the size of a galaxy, and he was sure he could figure it out given enough time, but... some of the gears were gummed up, tacky with a sort of dark tar. He had a damp rag, and was trying to scrub them clean, but new cats kept climbing in between the teeth and getting crushed and spreading the tar further.

Frustrated, he tried to smack the cats away with his disassembler, but he hit a gear and it shattered. He stared at the hole and his heart sank. Now the machine was going to die, and he'd never figure out what it was doing. Gears crumbled to sand before him, burying cats and tar under an endless desert.

The sun beat down on him relentlessly, and all he could find for shade was a scrawny cactus wearing a blue scarf around its neck. It waved at him. He had _far_ too much class to flip it off, but he did think very unkind thoughts in its direction as he tromped past.

Strife woke up parched.

Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was Rythian's belt. He turned his head upwards. The mage was sitting by the cot, reading a slim blue book with no title. Beside him was a small table with a pitcher and a glass on it, as well as Strife's sunglasses. Strife licked his dry lips. "Hey-" Strife slammed his mouth shut, cutting off the misty purple cloud that was drifting out to envelope Rythian's lap and book, before making a break for the ceiling.

Strife turned his head to watch it rise. Above him was an enormous damp stain on the ceiling, with chunks of congealed slime, like someone had been trying to kill a spider by throwing Jello at it. The cloud soaked into the stain, not noticeably adding to it. "How long was I out?" he asked, releasing a second, smaller cloud. Had all of that been inside him? No wonder he'd been feeling like shit. Why some people liked magic so much was completely beyond him, when it always seemed to result in things like _this_.

"About twelve hours." Rythian closed his book, used the end of his scarf to wipe off a spot where a bit of goo was trying to soak into the cover, and tucked the book into a pocket. "I have some water for you, if you can sit up."

While Rythian poured some water from the pitcher, Strife fumbled with his blanket -- which was heavy, and damp, with disgusting gooey patches that were an irritatingly familiar purple. He kicked the blanket down to the end of the bed and forced himself upright, reaching for the glass. His hands were shaking as he took it, and he spilled a few drops onto his pants. His damp, slimy, pants. At least he wasn't going to have to be the one washing them.

Rythian watched silently as Strife drank his water. It was sort of creepy, actually, like having a bundled-up gargoyle perched over him. When Strife set the glass back down on the table, Rythian refilled it. "So, doc, do I have a clean bill of health, then?"

The corners of Rythian's eyes crinkled up as he shook his head. "It will take around two or three days to purge your system. The flux is in your lungs." Rythian tapped Strife's chest with a finger, and Strife managed not to flinch. "There are spores in the tissue, and they're spreading the contamination into your bloodstream." Okay, that was super gross. There was nasty stinky magic _breeding_ inside him? And Rythian was obviously smirking at his disgusted expression. Yeah, laugh it up, potty-mouth. "My spell is removing the contamination faster than it builds up, but it will get worse before it gets better."

Worse than snotty magic gunk inside him? "You're not going to hocus pocus me asleep again." Strife knew he didn't sound as threatening as he wanted to, but he tried his best. If Rythian tried to magic him without his permission... Strife might not have his favored weapon on him, but he could still throw a punch.

"No." Rythian shook his head, and waved a hand at the water. "You need to be awake now. You're going to be losing a lot of water, and you'll need to drink a lot." He paused, giving Strife an unreadable look. "I should show you where the bathroom is."

Strife's bladder piped up to second this motion. "Fine. As long as it's a proper bathroom and not a bucket with a spell on it." Rythian seemed the type to have too much dignity to poop in the woods, at least. And the word 'bathroom' implied an actual _room_.

When Rythian led him to the room, Strife- well, he supposed he couldn't be disappointed. It was an actual bathroom, even if it was small -- with the sink crammed nearly on top of the ceramic toilet, which looked freshly installed. The shower was actually half sunk into the wall, and as Strife slid his pants down, he wondered what room was on the other side getting invaded by the back of a shower.

Gross, even his waste was purple, now.

Strife washed his hands and stepped out of the bathroom, only to find that Rythian had left while he was using the facilities. Should he go back to the room? Rythian probably expected him to, but Strife preferred learning more about this place he'd been stolen away to. Maybe if he continued down the hall he could find a window...

The window wasn't hard to find. It wasn't hidden in any way -- a simple birch frame raised out of the oak wall. There was no glass in it, which was probably why it was closed. Strife undid the shutters, got punched in the face with a blast of heat, and closed them again, his forehead dripping with sweat.

"Are we in the freaking nether or something?" Strife swiped his forehead with his sleeve, braced himself, and opened the window again. Outside, sand stretched away for what must have been miles, before a hill rose up from the desert and cut off the view. A few cacti were scattered across the flat expanse, like little green sentries. A few yards away from the window was a fence, and on the near side of it was a patch of dried, half-dead grass. There was a small pool of water with a glowing blue crystal in the center of it, which was probably the reason it wasn't a patch of fully-dead grass.

Strife kind of wanted to look away from the crystal, with it's incredibly lewd shade of blue, so of course that's right where Rythian was, kneeling at the edge of the water and waving an honest-to-goodness _wand_ around. He was also wearing a set of goggles that while incredibly silly-looking, Strife suspected were made out of actual real gold. A perfectly good material for wires -- and money! -- wasted on some kooloo-limpah magical fashion accessory.

If Rythian noticed Strife watching him, he didn't show it. He waggled his wand a while longer, then turned away from the pond and disappeared around the corner of the house. Strife closed the window shutters, and the heat faded. It was like pulling his head out of an oven; he was dripping with sweat, and when he ran his hand across his face it came away smeared with purple. Had he really needed a spell for this? Rythian could have just sold him a ticket to a sauna.

Soggy and irritated, Strife continued down the hall, turning a corner to find a door which, unlike the rest, was constructed mainly of glass set in a dark wood frame. Something green was on the other side. He approached, and the color resolved into a grassy-floored greenhouse attached to the side of the building. Well, he supposed even mages must appreciate a well-maintained garden. He braced, readying himself for another wave of heat, and slipped through the door.

It was hot, but not as much as he'd expected. A third of the room was taken up by a small tree with a silvery-white trunk and blue leaves. Some sort of magical plant he couldn't quite remember the name of... silverbark? It wasn't important. Under it was a tiny pond with another blue crystal glowing softly under the shade of the tree. It was surrounded by lilypads, some of which had large blossoms on them. Scattered between the tree and pond were faintly-glowing silver plants that Strife didn't recognize. He glanced over at the other end of the greenhouse, where a row of vegetables neatly lined the edge of another lily-filled pond. And in the center of the greenhouse, a patch of mixed flowers were probably as useful for magic as the glowing ones.

Strife stepped out into the greenery. Despite the desert visible through the glass wall of the greenhouse, past the neighboring house beyond the fence, Strife didn't feel like he was in a desert any more. The air was damp, and smelled lush and green, and the grass was soft under his bare feet. He felt like he was passing through a patch of flowers in the jungle. Strife swiped at his face as his sweat threatened to drip into his eyes, then walked up to the tree. He set his hand onto the trunk for balance, then reached up to pluck a single leaf from a branch.

Strife spun the leaf between his fingers, watching it shimmer as if it had some sort of prismatic coating which bent the light. He grimaced as his fingers left a trail of purple smeared across the leaf, then stared in astonishment as the color faded from the slime. Another swipe of his thumb revealed that it was still slimey, but... it was like it had bled the- what had Rythian called it? Flux? out of the sweat.

This planet had so much ambient magic that even the plant life was magical. Strife had known that. He'd cut down enough greatwood trees in his time, but this... blueleaf? This tree. It was... He smeared another line of purple gunk over the leaf. It faded more slowly than the first time, but it faded. As magical plants went, it was certainly less of an unpleasant experience than the mandrakes had been.

There was a knocking sound behind Strife, and he turned to find Rythian leaning through the doorway into the house. He wasn't wearing the goggles or visibly carrying the wand any more -- they were probably in his bags. Strife gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, and Rythian seem to take that as an invitation to approach. He walked up to Strife and turned to the tree.

"It's a silverwood, with an aura node inside it." Rythian dipped his hand into a pouch briefly, then held up the fashion disaster goggles to Strife. "Would you like to see?"

"What? Psh, no! I don't care about your stinky magical tree." Strife snorted and spun away, trying not to wobble too much as he walked over towards the vegetables. "At least you have some _practical_ plants in here. Ah, tomatoes, a fine choice of produce!" Strife bent down and started examining the tiny green tomatoes hanging from the plant. Behind him, there was a long silence, and then footsteps heading back towards the door.

There was a single tap of a boot landing on wood, and then Rythian's voice, "I should be ready to do the second part of the spell in about an hour, so please be in the Thaumcraft room by then." Without waiting for a response, Rythian left the greenhouse.

Strife stared down at the wilting leaf in his hand, then dropped it into the pond.

=== === ===


End file.
